Origins
by raphael-medina
Summary: This is an ongoing series retelling the origin of Batman from my own personal point of view with appearances by well known and unknown characters alike
1. Birth of the Bat

Monstrous screeching bats descended from the heavens in a flurry to an ominous classical chant. Powerful war drums echoed through the air and ravaging flames engulfed the area, rising up to shroud the bats behind a pillar of smoke. The vile winged beasts danced to the rhythm of the war drums in some sort of strange provocative mating ritual. The males howled with delight, spreading their massive wings to full span and flashing their enormous teeth in a display of masculinity. Swaying to the evocative tones, the female bats circled the men slowly, leaning in to take in the very essence of the male and feel their spirits join. In a matter of moments, the creatures broke off into pairs, tossing their heads back and screaming in total erotic pleasure. The blazing inferno that surrounded them seemed to explode into the atmosphere, consuming their entire world in a torrential downpour of sexual fire. The pounding of the war drums intensified, shaking the very fabric of existence: it was as if each crash were an earthquake, devastating mankind for miles in each direction.

The crowd within the Gotham City Opera House sat in their seats, stoic like statues, completely engrossed in the events unfolding before them. They sat slack jawed and bug eyed, taking their breaths in quick heaves at only the necessary times. As the fire glowed brighter and the war drums grew louder, the people refused to blink, afraid that they may miss even one small motion in the bats provocative movements. They all gasped in unison when one actor would perform some amazing acrobatic feat or fly across the stage. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves and pointed to the stage in awe as the creatures flew into the air, light as a feather. Even the adults were dazzled by the magical flight of the enigmatic bats that seemed to glide through the air like one might see a butterfly float along through the jet stream.

One child, however, buried his face in his mother's bosom, whimpering like a small canine backed into a corner. His mother gently stroked his hair; her acrylic nails gently passing along his scalp. She quietly shushed her son in an effort to sooth the fear built up inside him. Originally she had hoped that by bringing her son to this opera that he might gain culture that she belied her son was lacking. She prayed that this musical and theatrical masterpiece would spark her son's interest in something more refined than the Saturday morning cartoons he seemed enthralled by every weekend. After all she wanted something more for her only son: something more befitting the son of billionaire philanthropist Dr. Thomas Wayne. Her husband sat two chairs from her, on the opposite side of their son, his leg shaking in annoyance.

"Martha," Thomas Wayne whispered, leaning over his son to see his gorgeous wife. "I'm going to go have a cigarette, if you will excuse me." His wife nodded her silent agreement, though inside she detested the nasty habit that fouled her husband's breath and blackened his lungs.

Thomas eased his way to the end of his row and started quietly toward the nearest exit, which led to a narrow unused alleyway behind the theatre. He fumbled through his pocket for his small metal cigarette case and pulled it from his pocket as he sauntered down the aisle. He set his back against the door and glanced back at the stage for a moment as he placed a single cigarette between his lips. With a thin smile, Thomas pulled his matchbook from his pocket and struck one as he pushed open the heavy steel door. When he turned, he saw two men standing in the alley as if they had been awaiting his arrival: one man wore a fresh crisp suit and latex gloves and carried a heavy cane in both hands while the other wore a tattered peasant's suit and held a tiny revolver. The two men turned in a flash to see Thomas Wayne open the door and the cigarette in Thomas' mouth fell harmlessly to the ground in shock.

"Carmine?" Thomas asked, bewildered as to why the wealthy man was hanging around in the slums and alleys of Gotham City. The door to the opera house slowly crept shut and the last thing visible through the tiny crack in the frame was the cane in Falcone's hands crashing down against the side of Thomas Wayne's skull.

A few minutes passed, and no one came to Thomas Wayne's rescue. Inside, his son Bruce began to weep, drenching his mother's blouse in the sloppy tears of an eight year old boy. She lifted his chin up and looked into the eyes of her terrified boy, bringing up her handkerchief as well to wipe the mucus beginning to settle beneath his nostrils. Suddenly her mind ran back to a day, not long ago, when her frightened young son fell into a fissure behind the house and was assaulted by bats living in the caves below their manor. Her heart sank as she realized that she had brought her little Bruce into this nightmare and decided that it was her duty to help him escape it. She scooped her little boy into her arms and carried him to the end of the row. The pair headed for the alley where her husband had left to take his cigarette so they could all leave the theatre as a family. Martha flung open the door and saw her husband lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood, a mugger hunched over with a gun in one hand and Thomas' wallet in the other.

In one fell swoop, the music came to a crescendo, the curtain fell and Martha loosed a blood curdling scream that drew the attention of Gothamites for miles in every direction. Filled with panic, Joe Chill, the frightened mugger, blasted off two quick shots at Martha Wayne and her son. The first bullet pierced Martha's heart, splattering blood against the steel doors and sending her lifeless body crashing to the ground. The second bullet grazed Bruce's forehead, half an inch above his left eyebrow and the boy flopped to the ground with a howl, clutching the side of his face. Chill ran quickly into the darkness, tossing the gun into a storm drain and disappearing into the crowded streets.

Thomas Wayne's chest continued to raise in short pained bursts, each breath felt like his soul slipping out of his body and floating to heaven. "Bruce," he called out, praying that his son survived the hail of bullets. The little boy, still clutching his blood soaked face, crawled toward his father, fighting against the agonizing pain. "Daddy?" young Bruce cried, unable to see through the cascade of blood flowing from his wound. "Daddy?" he cried again, but still there came no response. Bruce reached his father's body and began to run his open hand across his father's body. He felt the warm blood oozing from the gunshot wound, but he felt no movement in his father's chest. He ran his hand up to his father's face, and felt no tension in the muscles. Tears mixed with the blood and the young boy's face was now a disgusting mixture of dark red and purple. Sirens began to echo, but the sound was distorted and fading in the child's ears. The air grew crisp and dangerously cold, while all light escaped from his world. By the time the police arrived, they found three bodies, drenched in blood, strewn across the alley: the wife against the building and the boy lying across his father's chest.


	2. Hush

Young Bruce Wayne returned home from the hospital after three days in bed, but there was something different about him. The once enthusiastic child now sat on the couch with his nose buried in books. He wore the bandage over his eye with pride, and Alfred couldn't remember seeing the boy cry at all, even when they cleaned the wound. Oftentimes Alfred would stay up and watch the seemingly normal eight year old boy and feel his heart swell up with pity. Alfred had originally come to the Wayne household as a temporary employee when his father was diagnosed with cancer, but now Alfred thought it would have been dishonorable to leave his young master without a father figure. Today, Dr. Leslie Tomkins, the physician who had treated Bruce and tried to save his father, was examining the wound once more at the home while Alfred sat in the study.

"Knock, knock, Alfred," a female voice came from the threshold of the study. Alfred looked up from his book to see the gray-haired doctor staring at him.

"Oh, I apologize, Madam. Come in, please. How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long, Alfred," the doctor came in and took a seat across the desk from Alfred. "What are you reading?"

"Casino Royale by Ian Fleming. It is one of my all time favorites."

"I've never read it."

"Are you jesting? You must read it some time, it is truly fabulous sport. In fact, here, take this copy," Alfred handed the doctor his leather bound copy of the classic spy novel.

"Oh I couldn't Alfred-"

"Nonsense, I have numerous other copies in the library."

"All right, all right, Alfred," she said with a smile. Alfred couldn't help but take comfort in the beautiful woman's smile. Her clear blue eyes twinkled when she laughed and Alfred felt like a schoolboy with a crush. Her curly silver hair framed her face like a movie star on an advertisement poster. Alfred always had feelings for the doctor from the moment he saw her, but she was married and a gentleman would pursue a relationship no farther. Instead, Alfred merely admired her from afar, longing for the days she came by the house for whatever reasons. But he had never wanted them to be reunited under theses circumstances; the tragedy that befell the Wayne family was no excuse for Alfred to be happy.

"And what of Master Bruce?" Alfred asked to break the awkward silence in the study.

"Bruce will be fine; he is strong like his father. He needs guidance though. I fear that if he gets snatched up by social services he may end up in a home that advocates his thoughts of revenge and violence. I'd take him in but-"

"What about me, Ma'am? I would gladly raise the boy myself in his own home if given the opportunity."

"Alfred, no one expects you to-"

"I _want _to, Doctor. I have no children of my own and young Master Bruce has always been like a son to me. It would be both a pleasure and an honor to raise the boy."

Doctor Tomkins was speechless for a moment as she let Alfred's profound words wash over her. In all her years of working with people she had never heard of a more selfless act for the sake of a child.

"All right, Alfred. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, doctor."

That night, after Alfred laid Bruce down for bed, a heavy thunderstorm rolled over Gotham City. The boy tried desperately to sleep, but the roaring thunder kept frightening him. Before, Bruce would run out of his room and into the comforting arms of his beautiful mother; but that was not an option anymore. Bruce cuddled up with his stuffed teddy bear and placed the pillows over his ears to drown out the noise. Whenever the lightning struck, Bruce felt like he saw someone watching him from outside. Tears welled up in the eight year old boy's eyes and he tried to sing himself a lullaby that his mother sang him to calm him down. The words came out in a jumbled mess, however, as young Bruce battled with his fear.

Just then, Bruce heard a tapping at his window like rocks hitting the glass. At first he tried to ignore the sound, but then it came again. Taking a deep breath, Bruce rose from his bed and crept over to the window sill. He looked down at the muddy ground beneath his window and saw nothing but shadows. A lightning bolt crashed unexpectedly and in the millisecond's worth of light Bruce could have sworn he saw a figure standing in the garden. Overwhelmed with terror, Bruce fell to the floor and slid underneath his bed. He fought to control his tears from coming; he knew that he had to be the man of the house now.

From his vantage point under the bed, Bruce saw his bedroom door creak open and a man standing in his doorway. He couldn't see above the man's ankles, but he knew it wasn't Alfred; Alfred wouldn't wear combat boots, or be covered in mud and dripping water on the hard wood floors. The stranger began to pace around the room slowly, and Bruce could hear him rummaging through his things. Bruce nearly screamed when the mysterious assailant flipped the sheets and pillows off of his bed.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word. Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird." The stranger continued to search the room, taunting Bruce Wayne with this popular children's lullaby.

"Come out; come out, wherever you are, little Bruce. I've just come to say hello," the stranger continued. Bruce saw him kneeling down to look under the bed and he scurried away back toward the window. Finally he came to see the upper body of the stranger. His face was wrapped in bandages and he wore a heavy brown trench coat. Beneath the tattered bandages, all Bruce could see were a pair of haunting blue eyes, staring straight into his soul.

"Who are you? What do you want?" the frightened child asked between panicked breaths.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word. Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird," the stranger sang once more, this time slowly pulling a pistol from a pocket on the inside of his jacket. "You think you are so cute, don't you Bruce Wayne? You think that now that your parents are dead, that the world revolves around you, don't you? Well, it doesn't! You stole my life from me; you took away what was rightfully mine! And now I'm here to collect. So, hush…" The stranger pulled back the hammer on his pistol and took aim at Bruce Wayne's head. Bruce crouched in the corner, sobbing frantically and trying to cover his face.

Before the killer could make a move, however, something crashed through the glass of Bruce's window and sent shards flying at the killer. A high pitched screech echoed through the room as a large brown bat bounced off the walls and continued to attack the intruder. The gun went off accidentally while pointed at the ceiling and the killer began to run out of the house, worried that he may have been heard. Bruce Wayne stayed crouched in his corner, knees clutched close to his chest. The bat still flew around the ceiling of his room, screeching and hollering like an alarm.

Alfred ran into the room a split second later and saw no trace of young Bruce. Ignoring the bat overhead, Alfred searched the room for the boy, fearful that someone had claimed the life of the poor young boy.

"Alfred?" a faint voice called out from the corner behind the bed. Alfred quickly ran to the boy, scooped him up in his arms and tried to calm him down. He played with the boy's hair while patting him on the back like an infant. He told the boy that everything would be ok, although he was not entirely sure of that himself. It appalled him to think of the kind of monster one would have to be to attack a child, especially one who had just endured what Bruce Wayne had gone through. But none of that mattered right now; the boy was safe and Alfred was going to see to that he stayed that way.

Bruce watched the bat circling above his ceiling with a mixture of fear and awe. He had always been scared of bats, ever since he had fallen into a fissure in the back yard a year ago. But this bat was different. He felt like this bat had saved him on purpose not through some random act of nature. He wondered if maybe this creature was his guardian angel; or in this case, a guardian bat.


End file.
